


Welcome to Wherever You Are

by qotsisajakk



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood and Violence, Dysfunctional Family, Eventual Smut, F/M, Family Issues, Graphic Description, Gun Violence, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Rey Thinks About Food Alot, Shameless Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-30
Updated: 2020-11-30
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:14:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27792892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/qotsisajakk/pseuds/qotsisajakk
Summary: “Bodyguard? Seriously? Like, Kevin Costner?” She folds her arms across her chest, challenging him. He’s seen her in action. He must know this is completely unnecessary.“No, not like Kevin Costner,” he narrows his eyes at her, clearly unamused. “A bodyguard. Like Tim McCarthy.”"Didn't Reagan get shot while with that guy?""I think you get the point."He stomps out of the house before she can question it further.
Relationships: Leia Organa/Han Solo, Poe Dameron/Finn, Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren
Comments: 4
Kudos: 14





	Welcome to Wherever You Are

**Author's Note:**

> So I was watching Bodyguard the other day because I miss Whitney Houston, and I thought to myself, you know that the Reylos don't need? Another bodyguard fic.
> 
> Anyway, here's another bodyguard fic, though this is not really based off of the movie at all. Title shamelessly ripped off from season 7, episode 15 of the West Wing because I had to get a little political flavor in here. Summary a shameless reinterpretation of a scene from Bodyguard.
> 
> I've tried to tag for what I anticipate showing up - I have a draft that is susceptible to change slightly, and I feel that nothing gets egregiously violent, but make your best judgement with what level of violence you're comfortable with. As a warning, Rey thinks about dessert a lot in this chapter so if that's something that may trigger you, please be gentle with yourself or avoid this altogether. There will be some gun violence sprinkled throughout this fic - in this chapter, stop reading at _before she thinks better of it, she slips past Han and through the door, flicking the switch in the mudroom that will turn the floodlight in the backyard on, then stops at the door separating the mudroom and the deck _if you don't feel comfortable with some more graphic descriptions of violence, and you can finish the chapter off with the last 2 lines. _. If you see anything not tagged that you think needs one, please let me know and I will add them. I tried my best to cover everything that you may see in this fic so far, and I will update accordingly!___  
>  I'm finishing up a semester at school, so updates may be spare between now and Christmas but I'm looking forward to this!
> 
> * * *

  


**chapter 1: pie plates**  


There are 5 pies on the table. Pumpkin, chocolate cream, apple, blueberry, and lemon meringue. The lemon meringue one looks like shit, and Rey can say so with confidence because she made it. The blueberry, apple, and chocolate cream are clearly store bought – the crimping is a little _too_ perfect, and the edges have that pasty white color that indicate they’ll crumble to dust the second they hit the plate.

Plus, Luke is the one who brought them. Which is probably the actual indicator of their grocery store origins and not the crust, but whatever. The pumpkin looks genuinely nice, perfectly set and with a lovely golden-brown crust, which is unfortunate because Rey kind of hates pumpkin pie but it is objectively the best looking one, so she’ll have to take a slice. They ate an hour ago, but she’s dying for dessert, so she takes a long swig of the truly foul IPA that Poe handed her after dinner in the hopes that it’ll take the edge off.

It decidedly does _not._

Though that may be thanks to the crunching of boots across gravel she keeps hearing from outside the house and the occasional sweep of a flashlight through the window, even though the blinds are pulled.

Maybe things would feel less tense if something besides football was on. Every 30 seconds Han or Chewie are stomping their feet over something while Luke chuckles and Rose frantically refreshes her fantasy football app to check if she’s lost points, which is sort of entertaining, but she just can’t get into the actual game, not with everything going on. Finn is unashamedly sleeping on the hardwood floor with nothing but a shared sweatshirt as a makeshift pillow, and Leia is upstairs with Poe, locked deep in a phone conversation with Senator Mothma, hopefully over something mundane like protocols for her foreign visit next week, and not the assassination attempt on her junior press secretary that happened two blocks from her city home yesterday.

Hopefully.

All things considered, she’s been through worse, which approximately no one seems to care about. Obviously she’s gotten a bit more accustomed to the comforts that being under the wing of Leia Organa-Solo and Luke Skywalker the past few years has brought her, but that doesn’t erase years of scrounging and scrimping for her next meal, defending herself from the scumbags who seemed to naturally gravitate towards Jakku County, and her foster homes. It doesn’t change the fact that she won the Padme Amidala Scholarship Award off of an essay she wrote in 4 hours at a McDonalds, the only place in a 30 mile radius with free WiFi, and got into Emerson and left the Arizona desert behind forever with it.

Luke’s hand on her knee draws her out of it, one because she’s really not used to anyone touching her, and two because she realizes it’s brought a stop to the rapid fire tapping that her foot was ricocheting around the living room.

  


“Alright, kid?” He mutters, his blue eyes not missing a thing even as she nods her head yes and smiles behind sips of her beer.

“Just fine,” she says once the beer is drained. She fiddles with the label, peeling at the corners gingerly. Luke pats her knee one more time, then crosses his arms, turning back to the game. Whichever team wears teal uniforms is setting up for a field goal. She’s about to ask what their name is, when a car door slams loudly on the street. She flinches, against her better nature, but Han is already up and crossing towards the foyer, expression dark.

“Hang on,” Luke stands too, and turns to kneel on his cushion so he can peek out the window. “Don’t just fling the door open, laser brain.”

“Wasn’t planning on it,” Han shoots back, all bravado even as Chewie guffaws in obvious disbelief.

“It’s a Lincoln Town Car,” Luke announces. “Black, government issued. Probably one of the security guys Capitol Hill said they would send over.”

“Some Thanksgiving for the kid,” Han grumbles, “shoving cops in her face, not a minute to breathe.”

“I’d rather speak with the police than anyone from Empire News,” Rey offers up with a tight smile. “They called seven times this morning before sending reporters to camp out. At least the police gave me a warning.”

Han grunts, though whether it’s in agreement with her or disgust with Empire is unclear. Rose stands, and nudges Finn none to gently with the pointy toe of her suede boot.

“The fuzz are here for Rey,” she says, flashing a secret smile back towards her. “Let’s relocate for a few.”

Finn yawns and sits up, running a hand over his bleary eyes. “Sure you don’t need moral support?”

“I think I’ve got it,” she responds softly, touched that they both care enough to offer her the choice between privacy or companionship. Rose offers Finn a hand, which he takes to pull himself up with and then they’re padding across the floor and up the stairs to join Poe and Leia.

  


Luke and Han haven’t moved, but she knows they won’t until they ascertain its actually law enforcement at the door and not some shadow assassin designed as such. Chewie is still seated on the couch, eyes not wavering from the game, but Rey catches the tight clench of his hirsute fist and knows that no trouble will meet her in this home, with these people.

Three harsh knocks on the door break the chatter of the announcers on the television, and Luke heads into the foyer to pull it open. Rey is on the wrong side of it, so she can’t see anything but Luke steps back quickly, his mouth parsed into a little ‘O’ at the same time Han rushes forward, and says “I’ll be damned. Hey, kid.”

“Kid? Really?” Whoever it is has a deep, slow voice and does not sound particularly amused.

“Yeah, kid,” Han huffs back, chest puffing out slightly in indignation. “And you always will be, even if you try to avoid it.”

“I’m not here for this,” she hears snarled back. “Where’s the girl?”

That irks her, so she marches to the doorway, and immediately wishes she hadn’t.

Benjamin Solo is swallowing up all of the space in the open frame, black sunglasses shielding his eyes even though it’s nearly 9 at night and the end of November, his hair a tousled mess and his full lips drawn back in an unbecoming grimace.

“For someone arguing over the semantics of being called _kid_ by their own father, maybe you should reconsider your choice of words when referring to others,” she greets him icily. “My name, for example, would have been just as effective.”

She can’t see his eyes behind the glasses, but his lower lip drops for a moment before he snaps it closed and a tic starts jumping in his cheek.

“My apologies,” he sticks his hand out stiffly. “Agent Benjamin Solo. Nice to meet you. In person, that is.”

 _Wanker,_ she thinks. Rey had been with Leia’s office for 6 months when Leia had received her nomination for majority leader, and she’d been given the undesirable task of trying to convince the Senator’s son to make an appearance at the ball following the 2017 State of the Union address. She’d been rebuffed via email numerous times, leading up to a terse phone call in which his only words had been “I don’t give a fuck. Stop calling me.”

So, not her most successful venture. Her assessment of his character hadn’t much improved from the gossip she gleaned from other staffers, and eventually Han and Leia themselves, though rarely did they mention him.

She accepts his offer to shake regardless, his glove clad hand swallowing hers up easily. It’s slightly chilled, thanks to the winter weather but the leather is buttery smooth and clearly custom made to fit him tightly, as she can feel the ridges of his knuckles where the pads of her fingers curl around them briefly.

He drops her hand as quickly as he reached for it, and swipes his feet across the mat.

“May I come in?” He directs this question to Han, but is toeing his dress shoes off even as the words leave his mouth. Han doesn’t answer, just waves his hand and plunks back down on the sofa next to Chewie. Luke has disappeared, probably upstairs to inform Leia of the unexpected development.

Rey watches as he bends to pick up his shoes and move them to the mat next to the door, flushing slightly at the way his charcoal grey slacks tighten around his…bottom. She looks away quickly, not trying to be accused of ogling him by anyone in the room. Not that she was ogling, anyway. It was just large enough to take up her whole field of vision.

“We can talk in the dining room,” he mutters as he stands, deceptively nimble as he strides toward the other room in his sock feet, pulling off his gloves as he goes. Rey follows, casting one helpless look back at Chewie who _laughs_ and holds his beer up, though whether its in solidarity or mocking she isn’t sure.

Solo the Younger pulls out a chair, and she waits for him to sit so she can squeeze past. He remains standing though, and must be staring at her from behind the glasses, his head tilted slightly to the left.

“What?” She snaps, off-put by whatever this weird routine is.

“The chair is for you,” he replies evenly, though she notices his nostrils flaring in annoyance.

“Wha- oh,” she sits quickly, cheeks burning in embarrassment, even though she has done nothing wrong. He’s the stuffy one, pulling chairs out like he’s some sort of butler from the 1700’s.

He seats himself afterwards, across the table, with the pies in between them. She tries not to look at them, though he finally slides his glasses up off his face to perch on his head and she sees him casting a critical gaze over them. He has incredibly thick eyelashes that she finds herself both jealous and in awe of, though the sharp brown eyes they frame are somewhat disconcerting. Here is a man who holds all of himself in his face, she thinks, and _maybe_ that’s why he doesn’t want anything to do with the press.

“What’s that one?” He points to the pie she made.

“Lemon meringue,” she offers up coolly, her mouth dry. He will not unbalance her. He’s here to help her, no matter what the family drama swirling around him and his parents may be.

“It looks like shit,” he says matter of factly. “Did my Uncle Luke make it?”

“No,” Rey feels grim satisfaction rising. “I did.”

His eyes slide across to her, guilt gleaming in them, and she knows some peace. What an _asshole._

“Right,” he clears his throat, and pulls a small notepad out of the inside of his coat pocket. “My understanding is that they told you we’d be sending Capitol Police. However, there is solid evidence that the attempt on your life was intended as a warning to Senator Organa.”

“Your mother,” she offers up snidely, unable to help herself.

He clenches his jaw but doesn’t rise to the bait. She almost feels guilty, but something about him is so _aggressive_ she can’t help but respond to it. Maybe she’s a little...put off by his dismissal of her a few years ago, but his attitude in the last five minutes has reinforced the shadow figure she’s built up in her mind.

“As I was saying, Senator Organa is not unfamiliar with threats, but this goes a little farther than nasty mail sent to her office,” he scratches something in the notebook. “So, Secret Service made the executive decision to take this on. Her international visits start next week, and we can’t take any chances with someone who will be travelling closely with the President.”

Rey has no care or comment on the health or safety of the current President, but she can see why the Secret Service might. She nods tightly, twisting at the ring on her right hand. Agent Solo looks down at it, an odd expression flashing across his face, but then he slides back to neutral.

“I’m going to ask you a couple of questions, about yesterday,” his voice has gone softer now, more understanding. “If you think you can handle it.”

“You don’t know me, Agent Solo,” she says coldly, unable to help herself. “I assure you I’ve handled worse.”

His jaw tightens again.

“Where were you coming from yesterday afternoon?” He stares through her, not breaking eye contact and she feels pinned in place by it, like she couldn’t get out of her chair if she tried.

“The Senator’s office downtown,” she responds as evenly as possible.

‘That’s a long walk,” he answers. ‘Dangerous, even without the attempted murder.”

“I know how to take care of myself,” she spits back “or did the footage circulating from yesterday not make that clear enough for you?”

“I’m simply trying to ascertain as to why you chose to walk instead of say, order an Uber,” he handles her flash of rage smoothly, more than she wants to give him credit for.

“Because I enjoy the fresh air,” she huffs back, crossing her arms. “I don’t like sitting in an office all day, breathing other peoples germs in, just to get in an Uber and do it for another 45 minutes in traffic with a stranger, when I could walk in almost the same amount of time. And besides, I like the cold weather this time of year, I didn’t see much of it when I was growi-” she cuts herself off, chewing on her lip.

He scratches this down in his little notebook, then tips his head up to look at her, a strand of that smooth dark hair swooping close to his forehead.

“Then you were raised somewhere…warmer?” His tone is even, but it sends a shiver of foreboding up her spine anyway.

“Texas,” she whispers back. “Near Tuanol.”

“Jakku County,” he mutters, then writes that down as well.

“Does that have anything to do with why you’re here?” She can’t resist.

“No,” he shakes his head, leaning back in his chair and dragging a long finger back and forth over his bottom lip. “That’s where you learned to fight though, I’m guessing.”

Her cheeks heat up again in frustration. She spent her whole life struggling to put that hellhole behind her, only for all of America to get an exclusive glimpse of her at her most fera,l thanks to some stranger who took a shitty iPhone video of her fending off a knife wielding assailant and sent it to ebery news station who would pay them for it.

“The headbutt was a nice touch,” he says, lips twitching in what could generously be called a smirk.

“I can give you a demonstration of it, since you seem so interested,” she snaps back, hopeful he can’t tell she’s preening underneath the venom in her words. The headbutt _was_ a nice touch.

“I think I’ll be fine without one,” he says. “what did he say to you, when he first approached you?”

Here, she has to pause and swallow around the lump that’s risen in her throat, an involuntary shudder running through her. She’s sure he notices, but thankfully doesn’t say anything.

“He said ‘fuck the Senator, and fuck you, you uppity bitch’ which isn’t really out of the ordinary,” she’s proud of how even her voice stays, at her BBC best. “I’ve seen all kinds of foul things said about us on Twitter. But then he pulled the knife, and said, ‘she’s going to pay for this, right after you do,’ and he lunged.”

She blows out a breath and looks up at the man across the table. His eyes are screwed shut and his pen is clenched inside his – _exceptionally large_ , her brain unhelpfully provides -fist, and he’s squeezed it so tightly the ink is starting to drip onto the table. He looks positively unhinged

“Agent Solo, why did the Secret Service send you?” Rey asks quietly.  
  


He huffs out a heavy breath of air and opens his eyes.

“She’s my mother,” he responds. “If someone needs to track her covertly, I’m the best man for the job. I have a built in excuse to be around her.”

“They aren’t worried you’re too…close, to the situation?” Rey pries. “Emotionally, that is?”

“No, they are,” he laughs harshly. “But the President doesn’t take no for an answer, and he thought this was the best option for everyone involved.”

Rey doesn’t bother responding. She knows enough about the President to understand what he really means.

“I’ll get you a towel,” she murmurs. ‘For the…you know.”

“Thank you,” he doesn’t look at her, choosing instead to keep his eyes cast towards his lap.

She ventures into the kitchen and reaches for the paper towel roll by the sink to tear a few sheets off. The huge casement window that overlooks the small, well-manicured, completely dark backyard has some condensation gathering around the edges of it. She’s reaching a finger up to swipe at it, to check if it’s coming from the inside, when a small red light catches her eye. Almost like that of a laser pointer, but it’s in the backyard. She squints at it, trying to make out where it’s coming from, when the flashlights from the officers posted outside the house start making themselves known again. The light blinks out, and a queer feeling comes over her, the same feeling she used to get when the tornado warning sirens would hit and she’d look out her bedroom window to see a sickly green sky.

She slowly walks out of the view of the kitchen window and slides down against the smooth wood of one of the cabinets.

“Agent Solo,” she calls quietly, trying her damn hardest not to let Han or Chewie hear, just in case he doesn't want them to. “I need your help.”

His chair legs scrape back from the table, and he crosses the threshold to see her crouched next to the cabinet.

“Please don’t panic,” she says evenly, infusing her tone with several years’ worth of well-practiced, zen-like calm. “But I think there’s someone taking pictures of the house in the back garden.”

He stiffens, but otherwise gives nothing away. He instead reaches for the cupboard next to the window and pulls a glass out. He fills it with tap water, then brings it up to his mouth smoothly and drains it in one go, a few drops sliding past the glass and running across the smooth skin of his chin. His throat works it down, Adam’s apple bobbing with each deep pull he takes from the glass, and she finds herself unable to pull her gaze away from his pale, exposed neck.

He finally puts the glass down, back into the sink, before walking past the window and towards the side door in the kitchen that leads to the mudroom.

“What are you _doing_?” She hisses. “Can’t you get one of the cops out there or something?"

“I could, but that won’t be much help if someone really is out there and they’re the ones who let them set up shop in the first place,” he shrugs off his suit coat, balls it up, and sticks it on the marble countertop. “Don’t move,” he points a menacing finger at her, then in an even tone calls out, “Dad?”

The sound on the TV cuts out, as Han bellows back “ _now_ you want to do the father son routine?”

“Can you show me where the dessert plates are?” Solo calls back, not taking his eyes off of Rey. “I can’t remember, and Miss Niima wants some pie.”

She can hear Han thumping from the front of the house back towards the kitchen, slightly reassured by his measured and confident steps, even as a thin trickle of sweat makes its way from the back of her neck down her shirt collar.

Han pulls up to the scene in the kitchen, annoyance clear on his face with his mouth already open with some snappy comment on deck, but Ben jerks his head towards the window with comically widened and threatening eyes, and Han seems to get the message, his mouth settling into a grim line.

“The pie plates should be right here,” Han says loudly. “Speaking of dessert, I think I left the whipped cream in the car. Can you run out and grab it for me?”

“Sure,” Solo replies easily. “I’ll be right back,” then under his breath hisses, “ _don’t_ move.”

He swings the door open quickly. Rey can’t hear anything but her blood pounding in her ears as several tense moments pass in silence, Han’s head cocked toward the door, when a gunshot rings out. She hears the five people upstairs react in a cacophony of thudding feet, and Chewie’s roar of surprise from the living room. Han’s expression is stricken, and he turns to her, but he’s too late.

She’s already got her face pressed against the window. She can’t see anything besides the vague, dark outlines of two tall figures, one of which must be Solo, but that’s it. The police who were posted outside were shorter, and clearly haven’t run into the backyard to help.

Before she thinks better of it, she slips past Han and through the door, flicking the switch in the mudroom that will turn the floodlight in the backyard on, then stops at the door separating the mudroom and the deck.

It’s Solo alright, and another tall man dressed head to toe in black, with what looks like a discarded _sniper rifle_ in the grass behind him. Solo seems to be doing just fine, cocking his ink covered fist back and releasing it in the other man’s face with precision accuracy, but he doesn’t go down. They’ve rotated so the assailant’s back is to Rey and the door, and it’s at that moment that Solo lifts his head up and makes direct eye contact with her, staring back at him through the paned glass window on the door. His hair is disheveled, and there’s blood at the corners of his mouth, but he seems otherwise unscathed. He also looks _pissed_ that she isn’t in the kitchen still, but that’s a problem for a different time, because the guy lunges forward at him and wraps him, trying to get him to the ground.

Rey makes another split second decision and flings the door open. She crosses the backyard in about 10 strides, thankful it’s a compact one, and jumps onto the other man’s back, sliding her forearm across his neck. His hands are tied up around Solo’s back, and he can’t get them back around to try and rip her forearm off, so she easily slides her other arm up to lock the chokehold in. He starts to gurgle against her, but she holds it tight, her teeth grinding with the force she’s applying. It feels like an eternity before Solo barks out “let him go,” which she does quickly, slithering down his back and backing away.

  


Solo flips the unconscious man over, cuffing him in one smooth movement. He makes the old hand signal for “phone” and brandishes it towards the upstairs window – someone up there must be watching – then whirls to her.

“What the _fuck_ was that?” He seethes. “Do you have a fucking death wish?”

“Great question!” She shouts back, leftover adrenaline buzzing, “I could ask you the same thing! Who the hell takes on a _sniper_ without calling for backup?”

“Me!” He bellows, blood and saliva flying out of his mouth in a fine mist, backlit by the white cast of the floodlights. It floats in the air around them, grotesquely captivating. Rey tracks it as it drifts down towards the ground, and that’s when she sees a neat little hole on his right side, sluggishly pumping out blood.

“Fuck,” she breathes, and sticks her hand out, pressing into it heavily without a second thought.

“Yeah,” he says back, expression dazed, all previous signs of infernal rage extinguished. “Fuck.”

And then he collapses into her like a sack of bricks.

* * *


End file.
